


Remember

by onanotherworld



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Drug Abuse, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Oh My God, Poor Enjolras, Poor Grantaire, SO SORRY, about this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-10
Updated: 2013-10-10
Packaged: 2017-12-29 00:58:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/998969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onanotherworld/pseuds/onanotherworld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I furrow my brows, looking through the disjointed memories in my fuzzy head. I can't feel the drizzle that falls, only see it through my half open eyes, were it streaks into a long stripe, clouding my vision as it falls. It lands on the left side of my chest, were something used to rest. I can't remember what.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remember

I stared at the angel at the end of the alley were I am lying, my mouth dropping open and the whiskey flask falling out of my nerveless fingers. He was a revolutionary vision in red, the hard angles of his body only intensified by the tight fitting jacket. The trousers he was clad in are black, and skin-tight, it takes me a second to drag my foggy eyes up and down his body. It occurred to me that maybe I knew his name, and I searched in my unclear mind, trying to find it. I tipped my head against the dank brick wall, and I keep on trying to drag air through my passages, chest heaving as I fight to keep the proper amount of air in my body. The angel seems to be searching for something, he's flicking his head back and forth, plush red mouth forming a word that I cannot hear, forking a hand through his curly hair. The person he is searching for is lucky, Apollo coming to save them, and I wish it were me he was searching for. But I have resigned myself to this fate, against the brick wall. He seems distressed, unshed tears making the pale blue eyes glassy and a divot between his eyebrows. I wish I could kiss the divot away, and I frown slightly at the dumpster at the other side of the alley, and wonder were this strange urge came from. 

 

_Do I know him?_

 

I furrow my brows, looking through the disjointed memories in my fuzzy head. I can't feel the drizzle that falls, only see it through my half open eyes, were it streaks into a long stripe, clouding my vision as it lands. It lands on the left side of my chest, were something used to rest. I can't remember what.

 

Apollo is crying now, and I feel something in the left side of my chest, and it hurts. Could it be a heart? I scoff silently at myself, wondering where the sappy stuff came from, not from me surely. I'm the drugged up cynic, the good-for- nothing. The words hurt, and it joins the pain in my chest, which is growing now. The words hurt, because they are the words my mother and father said to me. Would still say, but they're not here anymore. The old scars throb, both types in unison. Can't think a lot now. The fog inside my head is thickening, and I wonder what I put in that whiskey. Probably some drug. I can't bring myself to care if it kills me. 

 

It would be a good thing if it did. One less me in the world. I turn my attention back to Apollo, who now has a mobile phone out, thumbs going furiously. He finishes and put the phone away. I continue to watch him with as much focus that I have. He paces, reaches the end of the mouth of the alley, and turns around to pace to the other end. He keeps at it, and a text alert pierces the shadowy recesses of my mind, and I flinch slightly, my hand moving slowly to protect my face from an oncoming blow. I stop the hand, and send it back to the exile of the ground. I won't be blinded from Apollo's brilliance again. My frown deepens as I think slowly over the meaning of the word _again._ I do not remember this Apollo, but the phantom something in my chest tells me I should. Apollo is still pacing phone out, reading something on the phone, his free hand fisting and unfisting quickly, and his jaw tenses and untenses mechanically. I am caught by the simple movement, mesmerized by it. It's the only thing left in my clouded mind.

 

I try to breathe deeply, and the pain in my chest sharpens into a knife, and I struggle to hang on to the air I have, choking and coughing, before I lean exhaustedly against the brick wall once again. I swivel my head slowly to see whether Apollo has been scared off by my disgusting coughing. I am begging it to be not so as I see him leaving, his long legs eating up the ground as if he had wings. I take a final glance at him as he leaves, Apollo's profile is blade-like, and his coat is flapping behind him like some cape. His eyes and mouth are hard and determined, but his eyes are red. It is a look that makes my hands itch for my sketch book, but then I gradually remember that I don't have one anymore. He looks sad and he shouldn't be sad.

 

Why is he sad? It fixates me and leaves me in drowsy bewilderment, because he is sad. Why is Apollo sad? He is a god, after all. 

 

The last of his red coat falls out of sight, and he is gone, and he takes all the light with him. It is dark and I can't see properly anymore. I am left in the dark, dark part of the world without the sun in it. 

 

The pain in my chest grows.

 

I am lying in the dirt where I belong. I could never be as brilliant as that Apollo. If only. I wish I had known him, but I didn't and now I never will. 

 

I don't fight against the tide of oblivion now; I had kept fighting weakly to catch a glimpse of him. I held it back by inches, but now I don't. I didn't come here to die, but I don't care if I do. If it ends this miserable, useless, drunk existence, then I will go willingly. Aren't you supposed to be afraid of death? Because I'm not; isn't it one of the primal fears? But I don't have it. 

 

I'm defective.

 

This isn't news to me, I knew this a long time ago. I just wonder why it took me so long to get to this stage. My sleeve has rolled up, and the scars on my arm are visible. Criss-crossing my arm, there aren't any new ones. I tell my other hand to move to trace the scars, which it does slowly, falteringly. Why haven't I cut? It has been a part of my life for a long time now. What made me stop? The phantom thing in my chest stirs softly, but I can hardly feel it, the pain in my chest is morphing to agony. I can't remember.

 

I don't mind. It hurts to remember.

 

I crack open one eye, and see the dirty grey sky above me. The sky is usually always beautiful, even when grey, but this a nasty colour. My legs are flung out in front of me, nearly touching the dumpster that takes up half of the alley. The tip of my ratty converse touch the rusty, grimy side. My arms are dead things in my lap, the right hooked over the left. A silver gleam flashes in the corner of my vision, but I'm too tired to turn my head towards the flash. I'm so, so tired. I close my eyes and drift. 

 

I feel it when the sun returns.

 

He's there, at the mouth of my alley, in all of his glory, and I feel my mouth twitch ever so slightly. The phone is out again, and he's talking into it, hands flying out in wild gestures as tears streak his face. The words don't reach me, I can't hear them, and the phantom thing trembles. I want to comfort Apollo, but he'd be disgusted by me, so I watch. I don't think I could even move my arm any more. But he's there, and I bask in the warmth of his return. It looks like he hasn't found who he's looking for. I'm sorry for him, and I'm slightly angry at the person who's running away from him. But the apathy drowning everything inside me swallows these emotions. I'm simply watching. 

 

He slumps against the alley wall and sinks to the floor. I can tell he's sobbing by the movement of his shoulders, and the shaking hands hiding his face. I wish I could help, but I can't move. The red jacket moves with his shoulders, creases with the harsh movement, and creates new reds in the shadows of it. I want my sketch book to document the god's sorrow. Air is dragging in my lungs, and a tickle forms at the back of my throat. I start a hacking coughing fit, bending over my legs, the agony in my chest soaring to new heights. When it is finished I collapse to my side, curling into a ball and hiding my face in my hands like Apollo did. 

 

I feel a warm hand on my shoulder, gently shaking it. I blearily open my eyes, and see him above me. The blurry face transforms into fear, and he's shaking my shoulder harshly, and calling my name, I can't hear it, but I can just about see it mouthed out. How does he know my name? 

 

 _Grantairegrantairegrantairegrantairegrantaire_ is repeated like a religious chant, and the god above me looks terrified. I don't want him to be terrified. I crinkle my eyebrows, and he stops shaking my shoulder, and lets out a wobbly breath. The knife in my chest stabs me once again, and I'm too weak to move, the pain washes over me once more and my eyes fall shut. 

 

The next thing I know, Apollo has gathered me in his arms, and has sat against the wall, pulling me tightly to his chest. He radiates heat like the sun. He is the sun. Why is he doing this? The phantom thing in my chest feels a little less broken, but I don't understand. The black tide creeps up towards me and I let it. I'm too weak to fight. I open my eyes a last time. Apollo is staring down at me, and tears drip off his nose, and splash onto my face. He's stroking my hair, checking my pulse, and mumbling to me in a constant train. It's only because his mouth his so expressive that I can make out the words. _Pleasedon'tdiegrantairedon'tleaveme_

 

Leave him? I search the clouded memories, trying to find a trace of this god. I still can't find him. I would fight for him if I had any strength left. 

 

Apollo's beautiful face is above me, I am warm, I am with him. I can go in peace. A small smile graces my features, and my eyes slip closed. The last image I have of him is an agonized look in his eyes, and the summer blue eyes staring into mine, the ethereal face heartbroken. I wish I could fight for him. But I can't. I wish him to be happy, and if that is his expression when with me, he will be happier without me. He'll be happier. My mouth forms a final word, _Goodbye_

 

I'm not scared, the blackness is kind, and it bears me away gently and softly. Oblivion crashes around me, swallowing me, and I'm glad.

 

The phantom thing gives a last beat, and whispers quietly. 

 

_Enjolras._

**Author's Note:**

> comments and feedback are appreciated! i own only my typos, sadly.


End file.
